


When My Eyes Are Closed

by 80pt_mongolian (Emerald_Violince)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Minor Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_Violince/pseuds/80pt_mongolian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The village's interest in piqued when a small, brown haired boy starts following the Kazekage around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everybody. This is my first fic. (Yay.) I hope you guys enjoy. This is going to be a canon divergence story, and will also have shounen-ai elements; read and comment with discretion. 
> 
> I am writing this for fun, so, I have no really set update dates.

At night, when the village slept, Gaara felt the calmest. There were no children screaming, no vendors bargaining, no crowds bustling, and most importantly, no danger lurking. The buildings breathed easier, as the families who inhabited them rested, quietly. Gaara liked to listen to the silence, as he watched, waited and resided, peacefully. His thoughts often wound around his family: his brother, then his sister, who now lived in a different land, with her husband and son. Sometimes, he would ponder memories of his childhood, and sometimes, he would worry about the future. He would then find himself remembering his friend-but-not-quite-friend, who’s smile emitted a happy radiance wherever he went, with whoever he went with. It was then, after sitting for a moment, that Gaara would realize how alone he was. Alone, but not lonely.

The Kazekage’s primary job was to watch over his or her people, and Gaara believed he did this very well. Times had changed: he was the beloved, well-respected leader of the Wind. For years now, people would come to him for his council, for his advice, and in some cases, especially for the elderly, just to chat. He wasn’t a talkative man, but his presence assured others that he was listening, and that he was. His brother would often ask, why he would put up with it, that, in his position, nomial social interaction wasn’t necessary, that it wasn’t part of the job: Gaara would just give him a small smile, then shoo his brother off, telling him there was work to be done. In reality, Gaara’s smile was one of perpetual longing, rather than happiness.

It had been an especially quiet day, when he first saw the boy outside of his window, down on the street, playing by himself. Just a tuft of messy brown hair, with equally messy clothes; Gaara wondered where his parents were. The boy would kick the red ball in his hands, watch it spin out of sight, and then slowly trot off to retrieve it. This ritual was repeated, and Gaara watched, disinterested, until his work drew him away. It had been just a moment, and the boy had been forgotten by the Kazekage until the next day, when the boy, dressed in the same attire, returned. Gaara, yet again, watched until he was pulled away, but this time, with increasing interest. The boy returned, day after day, and soon, it became habit for Gaara to watch the small youth play, in his free time. He had discovered relatively little from his observation: the boy would appear around lunch time, and would leave right before sunset. And, he was always alone.

“Kankuro, do you see that boy, down in the front?” He mentioned one day to his brother, in the middle of a report. His brother had paused nonchalantly, papers in hand, and had slowly walked over to where Gaara was sitting, watching the boy yet again.

“Yeah. What about ‘im?” The older had grunted, seemingly uninterested in the matter at hand, or rather, annoyed at his inability to finish the report.

“He’s always here, everyday, by himself,” Gaara said. He hesitated, thinking, searching for the correct response, fearing the presence of hope, or even more so, dread, in his voice. “I am worried about him. Where are his parents? Is he all alone?”

“He’s probably jus’ a war orphan. There are so many of them nowadays.” Kankuro walked away, resuming his previous position, as he stared back down at his papers. His face was blank, void of emotion. There was no subtlety in the way Kankuro spoke of the War, as if it had been something as simple as a cricket’s cry, or a droplet’s fall. While the War was long over, all the dead, both physically and mentally, laid to rest, there were many unwanted consequences. While each of the Lands had its own individual problems, orphaned children served as the most prominent, restricting issue in the Land of the Wind’s impending future: with not enough orphanages, families, and namely, food, to go around, children as young as three were thrown out onto the street, with many of them dying with a matter of a few weeks. This did not not bode well with the Kazekage, and not only from a political standpoint: how was he supposed to protect his Land from outside forces if he couldn’t even get help for those, the littlest of his citizens, within his own village?

“I would appreciate it if you would look up any information on him, Brother,” He said. Kankuro’s face showed mild surprise, his eyebrows lifting a fraction of a centimeter up. What was this, of his younger, to invoke their brotherly relation? Kankuro rolled the thought around in his mind for a moment before answering.

“Sure, why not.”

*** 

It was evident that the Kazekage’s personal request had gone badly, when his older brother had returned once again, with a report and a red ball in hand. In fact, Gaara was certain it had been a failure, as he had witnessed it himself, from the safety of his hidden office. Kankuro had approached the young child down on the street, and while Gaara was sure that his older brother had had the best intentions at heart, his looming stature and threatening presence seemed to have frightened the boy away, so quickly that he had forgotten about the ball he had been playing with, which Gaara had surmised to his only toy, and perhaps, only possession.

“I was only gonna ask ‘im his name,” Kankuro huffed out, a rather exasperated look on his face. He set the red ball down on Gaara’s desk; particles of sand dust drifted down onto the fine wood. “But he ran fast, that little whelp. I couldn’t even find his shelter.”

“I understand,” was the only thing the Kazekage uttered, his blank eyes somewhat focused on the ball sitting upon his desk.

*** 

The boy did not come back the first day. And he did not come back the second day. Or the third day. Gaara watched and waited, though he was unsure of why he did so. A week went by, and then another, and the brown haired tuft did not reappear; Gaara did not hope, and he did not despair. but his heart felt heavy and constricted. The red ball remained on the Kazekage’s desk, where it was originally put down: whenever he was asked about it, the Kazekage would ignore the question, or work around it, and soon enough, the questions ceased to come. Gaara refused to touch it. Its presence brought him pleasant memories, but also pain, and soon enough he realized what he was feeling was not alone, but lonely.

He had been taking a casual walk around the village when he noticed it: the presence, the unruly chakra of a small child. He looked back and saw nothing, but as he continued on his way, he felt the small presence following him as traveled. It trailed him around the entire town, and while at first Gaara was apprehensive about the presence, by the time he returned to his office he was sure. He retrieved the red ball, and brought it outside; he felt the chakra signature eb with fear, but also excitement.

“If you would like your ball back, I would be happy to give it to you, but you must come out first,” Gaara called out, his voice soft and calming. There was no change initially, just the empty desert air whispering through the buildings, but soon enough, a small head poked out from around one of the corners. Brown eyes stared curiously at the Kazekage, and Gaara watched as the small boy slowly crept out from within the shadows. He was short, with pale, hollow cheeks, and his clothes were dirty and worn. He looked common and ordinary, and if it weren’t for his hair, which stuck out in every which-way possible, he wouldn’t even be spared passing glance. Gaara tried to smile, and kneeled down, “Hello, little one.”

The boy came closer, his eyes focused on the red ball, his grubby little hands stretched out to receive. Gaara let the boy take the ball, as almost immediately, the boy dropped his gaze, his arms tightening around the bright rubber.

“I’m sorry that I took your ball. That man, he is my brother: he did not mean to frighten you.” The young boy nodded his head, and Gaara saw brown eyes look up for a split second, before disappearing below the mat of hair once more. The boy looked uncomfortable, he probably knew who Gaara was.

“My name is Gaara. What is your name?” There was no reply from the boy. Gaara watched as the boy shuffled his feet, the red ball, dwarfing his small stature. Maybe this wasn’t the correct approach to take, maybe he was only frightening the boy; Gaara was in deep thought, therefore, he did not notice the small hand being held out to him until it was practically being wagged in his face. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Gaara held out his hand expecting a cordial shake from the youngster, but instead, the boy gently flipped his palm upwards, and started tracing something into his hands: letters Gaara realized. The child was writing characters into his hand.

“Ma-ro?” Gaara looked at the boy, who now had his face entirely hidden by the red ball. There was a small nod. Gaara almost smiled, and he squeezed the child’s hand in acknowledgement. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Maro.”


	2. Burning Bridges

Maro had become a small celebrity in the matter of a few weeks; while it was not outrightly stated by anyone within the presence of the Kazekage, the dull looking child who trailed behind Gaara during his daily walk soon became the gossip of the Suna itself, a change in the habitually stoic village. Nobody knew where the boy had come from: he had been seemingly birthed by the desert one day, skin as ashen as the earth he came from. He was still as willowy as a stick, but if it were up to the adamant, yet elderly grandmas of the village, he wouldn’t be that way. People were attracted to his tender playfulness, and the resident shinobi of the village were often caught playing ball with the young boy within the halls of headquarters, in lieu of taking their well-earned breaks.Even the aloof Kankuro couldn’t doubt that, when the once shy-eyed boy started wandering into his workshop and “bothering” his puppets, there wasn’t anything that could keep smirk from emerging onto his face.

  
Gaara had surmised that Maro was mute. He hadn’t spoken to Gaara since the day he had traced out his name, and, as far as he knew, Maro hadn’t ever been able to talk anyway. Gaara would ask him questions, and Maro would answer through a head shake or bob. Whenever they would go out, he would shyly trial behind the Kazekage, his tiny, childlike hands either gripped in the cotton of the Kazekage’s cloak, or wearily clutched between Gaara’s own hand. Gaara suspected that Maro was a street urchin, due to the circumstances; Maro had no file at the already overflowing Suna Orphanage. If the citizens of the Wind had enough of a struggle to open their homes to perfectly healthy children, why would they accept a little one who was even the smallest bit different? Since the child had taken up a regular attendance in the office, the Kazekage had coerced the youth into a new change of clothes, discarding the raggedy ones he once wore, but even without the grime and dirt obscuring his face, Maro looked like he didn’t belong. While Maro was obviously too young to be starting his time at the academy, his lack of attachment to any type of parent, or even friend figure, worried Gaara. Quite a bit.

  
“Maro?” The sun dipped downward, a greenish tint coloring the inside of the Kazekage’s office, offset by the sand and the buildings surrounding the horizon. Maro had been in his usual position by Gaara’s desk, quiet, his ball set to the side, looking at a picture-book one of the kunoichi had gifted him elatedly. Gaara’s mood had soured ever since his briefing that morning; while the levels of adolescent crime had soured within the span of a few years, the Kazekage found the Council's focus on still endorsing military support unethical, inappropriate, and on top of that, unsettling. Returning to Maro’s calm face was a lull in the storm, a warm, encompassing feeling that create a sense of peace and patience in Gaara’s demeanor. “Did you have fun today?”

  
“That little whelp infiltrated and conquered the ranks of Suna’s most elite shinobi; of course he’s having all the fun, in fact, look at the maniacal grin on his face!” Gaara must have been very fatigued, to have not have noticed his older brother’s presence; Maro’s eyes brightened as he quickly jumped off of his small, red, ottoman, and ran into Kankuro’s arms, in which he was lifted and flung about in the air: Maro’s mouth hung open in a silent cry of glee, the only audible sound the harsh intake and exhale of breath.No longer was Maro fearful of the cambative general; though it could be debated that Kankuro only saw Maro as a new, interesting plaything, Gaara liked to believe that Maro, even in his short time in Suna, had created a hospitable place for himself within the inner sanctions of Kankuro’s personability. Kankuro continued to twirl Maro around a few times more before setting the young child down.

  
“So, Kazekage, I’ve been hearing quite some gossip today, somethin’ about you and the council, and some choice words that might’ve been said,” Kankuro was eyeing Gaara out of the corner of his eye, a malicious smirk running across his face, as if he had just been hit with an epiphany; Maro was gleefully oblivious to the stern tension that had fallen into the room, his child eyes now following the small, anxious birds that tumbled up and down Suna’s buildings in the sunset. “I knew we was related somehow, little bro.”

  
Gaara exhaled, a deep encompassing sigh, before letting himself sink back into his chair, the chair reciprocating small, deaf creak from the Kazekage’s empty weight. He thought for a moment, letting his response lull back and forth inside his head for a moment, before finally uttering his words.“Kankuro...the shinobi, you know how the exaggerate matters. It was only a small disagreement, a small detail that the council and I did not not see eye to eye on. You know how they are about these things.”

  
Kankuro snorted, shaking his head in the process, “Of course I know how the council is!. But from what I’ve been hearing it wasn’t no ‘small argument’, more like a vicious maelstrom, from what I’m getting. Let me guess, you brought up that whole ‘make peace, not war’ hullabaloo again, didn’t ya?”

  
“Kankuro-”

  
“No, listen to me bro. I get what you’re trying to say, but you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from on this. As your general, I can’t endorse you on this. It hasn’t been long enough since the war to be stirring this pot up. Most people are still suffering from the wounds the war left behind, both physically and mentally. Loads of people lost a loved one and are looking for retribution because of it. If you move forward on this notion, you need to understand that you’ll be putting yourself in a vulnerable position: you’re going to be making enemies with a lot of people, and trust me when I say that those people aren’t just going to be some noname ninnies. I can’t promise your safety. Don’t burn the bridge, Gaara.”

  
Kankuro stared at Gaara, his normally dark eyes illuminated by the golden sun, maturing the intensity of the General’s gaze, and constructing a vision in Gaara’s head of what the young recruits saw when they met the ‘Demon General of Suna’. “I understand, Kankuro.”

  
“Good.”

  
Gaara dropped his head slightly to the side, as if some insurmountable mass was weighing it down. It dealing with these sort of matters that made the job title of Kazekage disagreeable. Diplomacy, whether corrupt or not, had never been Gaara’s strong suit. In the years after the war, issues had evolved considerably, becoming much more complicated than ‘let’s all band together and defeat the bad guys’; now, social tensions caused internal disruptions, and trade agreements were an ongoing battle between the states. Even the ever popular Hokage of Konoha, Naruto Uzumaki, was having significant troubles. Or at least, that was what he had heard from his outside sources; Gaara doubted that Naruto, a good friend of his, would never candidly bring up an issue of diplomacy in their short times together: their conversations usually centered on the new types of cuisine that littered each of their respective villages, which in retrospect, he respected and appreciated.

  
Gaara’s attention shifted, as he turned to see Maro’s head slowly start to jerk downward, his eyes starting to cloud with drowsiness. Likewise, Kankuro attention seemed to levitate towards the boy, who Kankuro was now kneeling down to pick up. Maro was tiny cradled against Kankuro’s chest, though this was not only attributed to Kankuro’s stature. Maro’s head dwarfed the rest of his body in comparison, leading anybody with half a brain to deduce that the boy was emancipated, in addition to the meager rations he got and his already unhealthy weight. Maro’s small smile gave the Kazekage reassurance. “It may not be today, and it may not be tomorrow, but it is blatant for me to see that something needs to be done, and I refuse to let the issue slip into nonexistence in order to appease the council, Kankuro. I am the Kazekage, and I will not be manipulated.”

***

Made of red clay and shining like a beacon on the horizon, Suna’s orphanage sat on the outskirts of village, and could undersize any building within the capital itself, with an exception to the government buildings. It had been the first of its kind, the only orphanage built in the nations that could fully educate a parentless generation. In the past, it could hold and house upward to 6,000 children and their caretakers. Though now, even in its enormity, there was little room left for many of the orphans from the war; in recent reports over-housing was becoming an increasing issue, with close to 11,000 children now being confined to the old building. It now stood to remind the Kazekage what had been, and what he strived to achieve.

  
“Good evening, Madame Emi.” Gaara bid. Kankuro, while keeping mind of the young child in his arms, joined the Kazekage in a bow to the headmistress; both had a deep found regard for the woman who had single handedly run the orphanage for over thirty years, a track record apparently, for most. The headmistress was a stout old kunoichi, with rough hands and a severe look on her face, but Gaara knew for a fact that her generosity and tenderness was what made the children love her so. She smiled a wide, broad, toothed grin.

  
“Good evening, Kazekage-sir, General,” She gave a short, soft bow in return. “I’m assuming Maro gave you no trouble, as per usual?”

  
“Of course not, Madame Emi. He is joy to have around.” Gaara watched as the old woman woke Maro from his light sleep, with a soft pet to the head. His eyes, still brown and still clouded, blinked in confusion for a few moments, before he found his place and reached out to the headmistress with small, branch like arms. Gaara sensed hesitation in Kankuro’s figure, but made no notion to acknowledge. Maro wrapped his arms around Madame Emi’s neck before closing his eyes once more to the world.

  
“He is just a dear. Wish all of them were like this. Quiet and sane.”

  
“If you do not mind me asking, have you been able to find anything of his background? Or perhaps a reason why he refuses to talk?” Kankuro was stagnant next to the Kazekage, persisting in his abnormal silence. Madame Emi looked down at Maro’s sleeping face, void of any sadness or misery, and whistled out a sigh. Her shoulders sagged downward, as if being dragged down by the severity of her revelations; she closed her eyes for a moment, the lines in her forehead becoming deeper and deeper as she thought, before she continue to talk.

  
“I’m sorry, Kazekage-sir, but we haven’t found any information that could be of any help to you. The kid is very tidy and sticks to himself; he doesn’t seem to have any personal items with him, and as far as I’ve gathered, the other kids say that he doesn’t really interact with anybody. I don’t even know if he’s from this village originally or not. I’m sorry.” Madame Emi’s hoarse voice surged with weariness, an obvious side effect from working all day, and also, from just getting old. Gaara bowed again, this time deeper.

  
“It is alright, I was just being selfish. That you very much for taking such good care of Maro, and of course, the other children as well. I, as well as the people of Suna appreciate your hard work for the community, ma’am. General Kankuro and I should be going now, if you do not mind.” Kankuro also bowed, wordlessly, mimicking his younger brother’s stance. Madame Emi’s face reddened in embarrassment, her elderly face coloring from ear tip to ear tip, the same color as her now faded, brazenly red hair. She tipped her face down, to once again stare at the small child in her arms, before smiling tenderly, and returning her gaze to that of the officials standing in front of her.

  
“Oh no, Kazekage-sir, you don’t need to worry about it, it’s my job to watch the children. It’s been my passion, since my own husband and children have passed on. Though, if you really insist on showing your gratitude, I’m sure the children of the orphanage would be very excited to meet the Kazekage in person.” Gaara blinked a moment, before slightly smiling to the request, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Madame Emi returned his smile in stride.

  
“Of course, Madame, and I am sure my brother would also be happy to oblige. Goodbye, and goodnight.” Kankuro and Gaara set out of the orphanage, their bodies soon losing the heat that had been gained from their short visit. The winter sun greeting them in its cold mirth, shining light blue rays to illuminate their path back home, its luminosity brilliant, in lieu of its chill. The dessert was always cold during the night, and even more so during the winter.

  
The silence home was deafening.


End file.
